


halcyon

by bunot



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Japanese National Team, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25418509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunot/pseuds/bunot
Summary: Distance makes the heart grow fonder and being an Olympic athlete can make the whole body burst.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 30
Kudos: 274





	halcyon

**Author's Note:**

> my previous atsukita was the first fic of mine to reach 100 kudos, so i wanted to celebrate with this one. for some reason i can't seem to stray away from reunion plots.
> 
> nevertheless, i hope you enjoy. happy belated atsukita week!

_July 7th, 2020_

_Hyougo Prefecture, Amagasaki_

Nobody finds themselves stuck in static inertia without reason. 

Today, Atsumu has made the mistake of spending six hours inside his brother's restaurant and walking out to find his car wouldn't start. 

He wonders how stupid the scene must have looked to anyone passing by— a lone car in the alleyway, interior lights left on in the middle of the day. He only finds relief in the fact that his boyfriend would take a two hour drive down south just to be the hero of his mistake. 

Shinsuke brought his truck next to Atsumu's vehicle and it almost looked like the origin of a junkyard, or a really awful vintage car show: both pieces of metal older than dirt, in their family lines for longer than the two men have been, only partially polished for presentation. Atsumu held the eldest child privilege (burden) of inheriting the old Corolla; Shinsuke's reason for keeping his grandfather's truck was embedded in some childish belief that it was lucky.

And, after witnessing the miracle of red and black clamp to clamp resuscitation, maybe Atsumu believed in its good fortune too.

"Alright, you can get out now."

He puts the parking brake on and climbs out to find Shinsuke wrapping his cables. The hood is finally shut and the job completed. Now, Atsumu can tell by the crease in his boyfriend's forehead that a stern lecture is impending. 

"How's the battery?"

"Fine now, I think." Shinsuke walks past him to stow the cables under the passenger seat of his own truck. "You need to stop throwing things in the back so you don't have to turn on the lights to search for them later."

Atsumu follows him to the hood of the car. "It's not my fault the old battery drains easily. If it happens again, I can just borrow your charger overnight."

"Or you could just sell her and take the train like the rest of the city population, no?"

"I'd never get rid of this thing." Atsumu slips the car keys into his front pocket. There is no bargaining. The thought of driving something that wasn't already stacked to the roof with lore for lineages seemed even scarier than the dead battery itself. "You know what though?" 

"What?" Shinsuke leans against the car, putting his hand on the hood only a few centimeters away from Atsumu's. 

"The engine sounded pretty rough when we finally got it to start. I don't know if I should worry about that."

"Well, it's not a stick like the truck, so the automatic gear shifting should be smooth." Shinsuke tilts his head down to the surface of the car. "To be honest with you Atsumu, this thing could last you the rest of the year, or it could call it quits tomorrow." 

Atsumu supposes it's true. He'll never know whether using it is a safe call or not, but he has stubbornness stapled to the walls of his inner ear. 

"Mmm."

They stand there, palms pressed against the hood for a few silent moments. 

It lasts until Shinsuke lifts his hand to start wiping at Atsumu's elbow.

"You've got dirt on you."

The touch doesn't make Atsumu flinch. He lets his boyfriend attempt to smear the black substance off, waiting patiently as his thumb presses against skin in small motions. Their bodies are curled up so close, if Atsumu leaned forward, his nose would fall right atop Shinsuke's head. 

"It's fine," he finally says after realizing it's getting nowhere, and swats his hand away. Shinsuke gets the point, and wordlessly puts his hand back on the hood. 

The street looks even bigger when they are the only two vehicles present. It's been nearly empty for months now and tonight, all Atsumu can hear is the buzz of halogen. There's a yellowing streetlight at the far end of this alley, along with a graveyard of power lines. 

He takes matters into his own hands and lets his hand crawl, the bend of his fingers coming to rest over Shinsuke's knuckles. 

"Do you think you could come over for dinner?"

Shinsuke's gaze lifts to meet his own. 

"You want me to stay the night?"

"Yeah, I mean..." Atsumu trails off. The syllables leave curtly, keeping their stiff posture even as he tries to redeem his slouch against the car. "If you can?"

His boyfriend's lips are as taut as a tightrope. A two hour distance is nothing, but equally demanding career choices on the opposite ends of the spectrum is something else.

"Can we try next week?" he finally asks. 

"Okay, next week," Atsumu repeats. "It's not like I haven't—

"Taken a rain check before."

"—taken a rain check before." 

Atsumu looks to him in surprise. He's searching for a sign that Shinsuke can somehow read his mind, but instead of offering an explanation, all his boyfriend does is plant a kiss on his cheek.

He pulls away for a few seconds, but not before Atsumu shifts to nudge against his nose. 

It's a comfortable kiss, in a way both of them have already established. A ritual in the reduction of each other, to nothing but mouth covering mouth, hopeless and open. 

When Shinsuke breaks the kiss, he starts making his way down Atsumu's jaw, throat vibrating with a tickling laugh that spills out.

"Come back," he says, and Shinsuke obeys, finding Atsumu's lips once again. A soft groan escapes from his throat as Atsumu reaches out to grip both of his forearms, pulling him closer. 

Their hands only fully reach each other the second Atsumu notices the sound of a door closing shut.

He breaks the kiss, pulling away from the car and standing with his best posture. He looks up to see Osamu by the back door of his restaurant; his arms are crossed over his chest, amused. 

"Are you two finished?"

Shinsuke is standing by his side now, smoothening his button down with one swift movement. It ends with his fingers finding the ends of Atsumu's hand, intertwining them behind the hood of the car. The horizon, though far away, is starving for its golden sun. 

"Not by a long shot."

___________

_2021 June 20th_

_Hyougo Prefecture, Toyooka_

Even in the late morning, the valley exists like a pocket of a long-forgotten era of prehistory. Peaks of the mountains are dusted with clouds the color of hulled sesame seeds. They are opaque and parting as if even the gods enjoy pulling back the curtains to admire the masterpiece of sown grain. 

It's 10AM and Granny is coming in from her pre-lunch walk. When Shinsuke turns around, he notices a brown paper bag in one hand, and tupperware in the other. It would have been normal if not for the way she is clutching the bag so tightly. She closes the front door and chooses to put the glass down on the side table in order to turn the lock.

"What'd you get?" He asks as she toes off her outside shoes and switches them for her indoor slippers. 

"Some great gifts."

She pads over to the kitchen and sets down the tupperware of sweet rolls. 

When he finally bites into the smallest roll, he finds relief in today's smooth red bean paste texture. "Mmm."

"Do you want to see?" She asks, pulling a chair out to sit down. The brown paper bag is still pressed flush against her chest, as if protecting it from some unknown force of nature around her.

"Sure," he indulges her, sitting in the chair adjacent and waiting patiently as her small hands reach in and pull out a magazine with a blond-haired, blue-eyed man on the front cover. There's only the faint nectar of perspiration on the crevice of his neck, and the rest of his viscid limbs are pulled back, mid javelin-throw. 

"Here you go," she exclaims, laying it out on the table and gesturing as if to say _Ta-da!_

"This is for me?" He asks, unsure of whether to be touched or embarrassed at her straightforward presentation.

"Of course." Her small hands come up to the corner, opening to the table of contents. For Granny, it doesn't seem taboo at all. She scans over the rows and rows of English, until she lets out a noise of relief and begins flipping through. 

Shinsuke prepares himself for more awkward javelin-throwing half-naked foreign men. But the second she presses her palm and flattens out the spread completely, he holds his tongue.

There they are, in full color— the Japan men's national volleyball team. Shinsuke's gaze dashes back and forth, unable to decide where to start. But his origin begins in the center where the great Karasuno duo have their fists raised in predetermined victory. 

To the left of Kageyama Tobio, three bodies down, is Aran himself. He boasts proud eyes and arms crossed as if ready to battle anyone in his way. He also definitely shaved for the shoot, and Shinsuke makes a mental note to tease him about it through text later. 

It's only when he makes his way seven men down the line does he find his golden boy.

The eyes of Atsumu in his top athlete persona are both soft and cutting, cunning and mundane. To put up a public facade is in his nature, to stun the viewer is his charm. Shinsuke traces through his half-lidded eyes, down the curve of his boyfriend's jawline. When he runs a finger against the two-dimensional skin, he can almost envision a pulse to accompany it. Something beating incessantly as if to signal a message only meant for him. 

It strikes him with the desire to be shaped out of a million copies of this magazine spread. To tear the wax paper and fold each piece into his chest, the image of Atsumu over Atsumu over Atsumu layered there like a second heart.

"Shin, do you mind gettin' me my glasses?"

Shinsuke tears his eyes away from the page to look at her. She's smiling at him with a warm sense of knowledge that makes him feel much too visible. So he forces out a nod and turns to disappear down the hallway into her bedroom. 

He closes the door behind him and it feels like splashing cold water onto his face. His body doesn't shake but his footsteps are heavy, the floor seemingly pulling him towards itself in indescribable longing. There's only a few more paces before he reaches the vanity. 

Standing in front of the wooden dressing table always makes him feel eight years old. He is greeted by objects that once permeated his childhood as old friends; the boxwood comb and all its carved ridges, an old pocket watch with the glass yellowed, a hand fan with a tassel faded and frayed from use. 

But it's the small jar of talcum powder that always calls to him. It smells like the crevasse of Granny's neck, like when he holds her in his arms and she is as small as a bird. He's overcome with some strange joy and pride. He wants to hold his boyfriend. He wants there to be more than just flat printed color. 

When he comes back to where Granny is, he hands her the glasses and she holds the magazine spread out for both of them to read aloud, interrupting only a few times to ask for a definition. Shinsuke does his best to provide her with what he knows, but in the end they both know it doesn't really matter. If a picture is worth a thousand words, Atsumu in this red jersey is an era chock full with rebirth. 

___________

_2021 June 25th_

_Tokyo Prefecture, Shibuya City_

They've got their third— and potentially last— shoot for a foreign magazine today. 

He's spent the past few minutes wondering what his body makes of itself, looking no further than his reflection in the public restroom mirror and thinking, _Maybe this face does enjoy being a rallying cry for the masses._ It's been a sad attempt at a pep talk, at making this day tangible. They have their first Olympic game in less than a month and it's no surprise that the act of taking a photo pales in comparison. 

Atsumu finishes his time in the bathroom and walks back to find Yaku outside of the hair and makeup room. He hasn't been sat down yet either, so he makes like he doesn't care: eats a fistful of granola over the trashcan and scrolls through his phone, only acknowledging Atsumu's return with a curt nod. 

Atsumu nods back, and pushes through the white door to reveal the inner chaos that Yaku was only a precedent to. 

There's a collection of mirrors lining the wall to the left, each one faceted with a row of bright bare bulbs that illuminate the face of each man sitting down. 

And then to their actual faces. Applying makeup looks like a marathon sport married to a form of art— all helter-skelter movement and a bunch of products packed onto such a small canvas. They're all supposed to be going for a natural look (at least, that's often what the magazines tell them), but it's been taking them a while to get ready.

The director of the shoot, whose name Atsumu still doesn't know, is walking back and forth between the makeup artists and the photographer in the corner of the room. When he notices the arrival of a new body, he whips his head to the entrance. 

"Miya-san, please stay here. Onodera should be ready for you soon but if something's missing, just let us know, alright?" He packs all these syllables as if on a time limit, and then whips his head the other way. "Where's Sayaka? I need her." 

Atsumu is about two more syllables from pure confusion, but an assistant comes up to him desperately pointing to their clipboard, and it saves him.

With the two rushing off, Atsumu stands helpless in the middle of the dressing room. 

He feels a pair of eyes looking at him and turns to his right, where Aran-kun is sitting down. His hand pats the space next to him, and Atsumu sinks into the old cushion.

"Your forehead's all wrinkled," he says, looking at him once and then turning to the mirror in front of them, where Sakusa is getting his makeup done. "Stressing out too much over little things."

"Yeah," Atsumu agrees, leaning against the wall. He tucks his legs flat against the bench, afraid that if he were to stick his foot out, he might trip the stylist in front of them. She's working the rhythm of a small brush against Sakuksa's eyebrows, and despite her disinfecting every brush before use, his eyes are still squeezed shut in discomfort. 

"These are the things you're supposed to be indulging in, Atsumu." Aran-kun sits back against the wall. "The stuff that lets you know you've made it."

Atsumu isn't sure that the sign of success smells like hairspray. He envisioned it was more like the interviews where they were only photographed in action, all steaming pores and aching muscles and none of the powder caked on his forehead and the body posed in ways that aren't of its own accord.

"I think I'll only know if I made it when we get gold. And even then, I'd be happy if we never have to do this ever again."

"I know it doesn't seem the same as talking to little kids after a game, but it's basically the same thing. People looking up to you because of your story. You shouldn't hate having to share it."

Atsumu doesn't know whether the advice is supposed to be reaffirming or a critique. Either way, he can't deny that the thinking isn't ingrained in him. 

"I guess it's just hard to compare this to a volleyball court. Never needed memories back then, either." 

He knows they're dancing around the topic now, so he waits for Aran-kun to just rip the bandage off. And he does, smooth as ever.

"Mm," he hums. "Speaking of, have you talked to Kita lately?"

Atsumu twists his torso to look at his senior. "No." It isn't on purpose. He hasn't had the time to call anyone, really. "Have you?"

"He texted me the other day," he shrugs, voice indifferent in an attempt to keep Atsumu calm. "Saw our article in that British magazine."

"Really?" Atsumu envisions Granny coming home with the magazine, presenting it to Shinsuke like the holy grail. "What'd he say?" 

"Made fun of me for shaving. Said I looked like I could be printed into a cardboard cut-out."

At this, Atsumu finds himself smiling wide. Aran-kun, happy to have eased the tension of the scene, mirrors the sentiment.

"Anything about me?" Atsumu asks. 

Aran-kun pauses for a second. 

"Not that I know of."

The words hang, but not in an invading way. Rather, he finds some strange comfort in the idea that Shinsuke could be somewhere on the farm staring at a stupid headshot of him, like a fawning long-distance lover from decades past. And no one would be a witness. He may be an athlete here, but back home he is Shinsuke's best-kept secret. 

It hadn't been a conscious decision to cut off communication with his boyfriend. Atsumu had been so swept up by everything going on, even if he had the time to stop he wouldn't know what to say.

Sometimes it felt like if he couldn't have all of Shinsuke, there was no point in settling for the fractured bits and pieces. 

"Miya-san, you're up."

He turns to see Miwa calling him, hand on her hip as if to keep her from tensing up.

"I thought I was waiting for Onodera-sama?"

"Still working with Komori," Miwa gestures over to where an old lady is going back and forth between brushing Komori's hair out of his face or framing it down, though both options capture the same effect. "I know I'm not as experienced, but you can trust me."

"Okay," he mumbles and follows her to a station. She sits him down with his back to the mirror, and instructs him to close his eyes. 

He's thankful for the way Miwa maneuvers his jaw, methodical, as if only to touch his face when absolutely necessary. Perhaps she's grown up being all too aware of the personal domes teenage boys build around themselves.

She goes through the creams and powders and lotions first, light substances coating his cheeks and forehead.

Atsumu closes his eyes and it's almost like he is back in Toyooka, a little over a year ago. He's sitting with his back pressed against the stiff fabric of Granny's vanity chair, surrounded by so much abalone he might as well be the pearl inside a giant mollusk. The only thing that's missing in this case is the all-encompassing smell of talcum powder. 

The presence of Miwa disappears and Atsumu opens his eyes. He finds her selecting a half-full jar of sooty liquid and a fine brush from the cluttered vanity. 

"Don't worry, it's going to be really natural," she assures.

He nods, and closes his eyes once more. A shadow is brushed carefully around the edge of his eyelid, tracing it out in one fluid motion.

This time Atsumu feels fifteen, sitting in front of Kita-san's desk after school, waiting for practice to start. His senior is studying in his preferred method of rewriting notes. A thin gel pen glides down the paper in one thin, even stroke.

When he opens his eyes again, Miwa is finally turning his chair around. 

"I'll just put a setting spray on and you'll be finished, okay?"

Atsumu looks at himself in the mirror for the second time this hour. He looks like himself, maybe just a little bit more translucent. Lighter.

"Yeah. Thank you."

He watches himself breathe, drawing his shoulders towards his collar. If he tries hard enough, his collarbones almost look like two roads. Except they are hollow, and do not lock together. 

Despite everything, he cannot detach the memories from his body. 

___________

_2021 February 5th_

_Hyougo Prefecture, Toyooka_

Laundry sits in the full bathtub, waiting to be bleached, laid out flat to dry. 

In the late hour of this evening, Shinsuke's stomach roils to touch the cold porcelain. At the bottom of the cool blue water, the stopper wavers, warps, disappears behind the sea of cotton, silk, and linen. 

He's thinking about the implications of someone leaving. Knowing that the second Atsumu is consumed by volleyball, he will cut off everything in life to focus. 

Though at the same time, there is undeniable happiness for him.

The colors are like pale froth, sea glass slipping back under the crest of a wave, the passion fruit tint of clouds from the sunset hours earlier. Shinsuke presses his forehead to the lip of the tub and thanks the gods for a love that leaves a film over his teeth, an ache at the top of his spine. He's been feeling a strange surge of pride in all his dreams lately.

In the next room, Granny is not stirring in her bed. There's a noticeable absence of her, which only cues to the noticeable presence of Atsumu leaning against the bathroom door frame. 

He has his thumb pressed against the seam of his lips. Shinsuke takes his silence as unnatural, and turns around to face him.

"Are you okay?"

"I think so."

Shinsuke nods, standing up. He walks past the toilet and the sink, over to where his boyfriend is. 

"Did you close the kitchen window already?"

"Yeah," Atsumu says. "Are you done with the clothes?"

Shinsuke nods. "It's time for bed, then."

"Guess so."

He presses a hand to the small of Atsumu's back and guides him down the dark hallway. It's a muscle memory now, a secret dance only the two of them know, all the way to his bedroom. 

If Shinsuke listens close enough, he can almost hear the anticipation. It rises, up and up from the ground and it keeps spreading. It feels the filing his nails down to the quick too fast, brushing them against the threads of a knitted scarf until they snag and catch. On Atsumu's last night in Hyougo, there are so many feelings trapped under the floor, suppressed by both their footsteps.

Once they are inside, Shinsuke draws back the curtains to let the moonlight in. In the darkness of the night, Atsumu is looking at him like he has grown two heads. Like they have no idea how to touch each other now, knowing this night has to last them months. 

"You're overthinking this," Shinsuke huffs out a laugh, and lifts his arms to help Atsumu free the tangled wet shirt from his own skin. 

"I know. I'm just nervous."

He tosses it onto the floor by the foot of the bed, and does the same with his own shirt. Atsumu reaches for the front of Shinsuke's trousers. Shinsuke notices the slight tremor of his fingers and catches his hand to pause. Only then does he become conscious of their chests, bare once again. The glow of the waning crescent makes his skin pale, sculpted muscle already turning into ghost.

At the realization he was staring, Shinsuke looks up to see Atsumu looking at him with wide eyes, waiting for his every call.

"You know, you're not going to be that far away."

"I know," Atsumu whispers. "I just don't want to leave in the first place."

Shinsuke refuses to let himself get emotional this early into the night. He shakes his head.

"You're cold." 

He spins around to grab a fleece blanket from the top shelf of his desk. At the thud of Atsumu's pants joining the other garments, he wordlessly unfolds the blanket to drape it over him."Start warmin' up now."

"I'm tryin' to," Atsumu whispers.

Shinsuke removes his own pants to fold them on top of the pile. 

"Just give it a minute," he says, fingers coming up to spread against the top of his chest, down to his arms. 

After a few seconds, he can feel Atsumu relax against him. His arms slide around Shinsuke and enfold both of them in the blanket. Shinsuke begins messaging at his back, working his fingers all the way to his neck.

"I think it's workin'."

Atsumu's breath near his forehead is warm, as is the stretch of him against his cheek. Shinsuke finally closes his eyes for a moment to memorize the mixture of heat and airiness that resides in his own belly.

"That's good."

He shifts his head so that his mouth brushes against the top of Atsumu's chest, soft against the cold skin there. When he pulls away, Atsumu's own lips graze his forehead. His breathing was ragged. Atsumu shifts, and Shinsuke waits for him to pull away. 

He's holding back, for reasons unknown. Despite his tendency to want to conquer the world, here he is the most timid, tense version of himself. 

Nevertheless, Atsumu does not accept defeat. Instead of retreating, his fingers spread against Shinsuke's thighs, moving him closer. He buries his nose into Shinsuke's hair to take in the smell at its most potent hour.

When they finally reach each other's lips, there's little to be said of urgency. 

The blankets drop. Shinsuke guides his boyfriend down onto the mattress. They partake in their own personal rituals: the savoring of nearness, the scrape of his stubble against a cheek, the pressure of hands on a body. 

Shinsuke reaches down to push Atsumu's legs apart, crawling between the two knees. In front of him, his boyfriend is propped up on his elbows, trying to memorize the current image. 

"Atsumu," he whispers, his voice low. "Tell me when you want to stop." 

He reaches up to touch Shinsuke's earlobe, rubbing the soft skin there between thumb and forefinger before touching his cheek. Shinsuke leans into the touch, unable to look anywhere other than Atsumu's left temple. He does not want to admit that despite his happiness, he is already holding back tears.

"No," Atsumu laughs wetly. Even without trying, they are completing each other. "I don't ever want you to stop." 

_____________

_2021 July 6th_

_Tokyo Prefecture, Shibuya City_

Not even two weeks after the photoshoot, the team is cajoled by their PR manager into a printed interview. The company offered to take the men out to eat and as they piled into the long booth, Atsumu ran through a mantra of his go-to answers. He's suppressed all his over-emotional tendencies today, aiming for feigned stoicism in every response. 

Akane Yamamoto is smoothening her notebook now, a collection of pristine blue-ink pens on the table in front of her.

Beside him, Ushijima is sliding his portion of rice down to Kageyama and pulling up his extra side of dried daikon strips. The man ate vegetables; he ate meat; occasionally, if they all went out to eat, he would indulge himself in dessert. But never rice.

"Are you watching your diet?" Akane asks.  
  
"Ushijima-san is anti-carbs right now," Shouyou explains.

"Anti-carbs?"

Shouyou nods. "He is against rice."

Akane seems to look at the man, and then to Kageyama. "I don't understand." 

Kageyama stirs the straw in his water glass, having not touched any food yet. "You don't have to understand everything."

Atsumu can't help but smile at this. The men he surrounds himself with are unlike any other; they bounce simple words off of eachother and put them together in a way that people aren't accustomed to hearing.

It reminds him of family reunions back home, where the problem was none of their aunts and uncles knew what to do with the forthright simplistic way he and Osamu talked. Everyone expected backroom agendas, conversational spies that snuck up on you. But there was nothing like that between the twins. There's nothing like that in this restaurant now.

It'll be a miracle if they get through this interview today.

"So I was envisioning this to be less about sports and more about your personal lives together in one team," Akane picks up the pen closest to her. "You've all known each other from high school, I assume there are experiences from then that you take with you on the court?"

"Kiyoomi still has the same workout playlist he's had since we were kids," Komori says, unfolding his napkin to lay it on top of his lap. 

"That's true. Omi doesn't listen to any music that's been made past 1995," Bokuto adds.

Despite how ridiculous it seems, Akane seems to be jotting this all down at record speed. "Do you have a favorite song, Sakusa-san?"

In the center of unwarranted attention, Sakusa is deathly silent. "I don't think that it's important information."

She reacts as if entertaining a group of children, tapping her chin in thought before continuing. "Well is there any information you think you'd want readers to know?"

"About each other?" Aran-kun asks.

"Sure, about each other."

Atsumu decides to speak up, just for the hell of it. 

"Yakkun loves granola bars."

"Hey!" Yaku leans forward to send a glare down the table, as if Atsumu had sold out some insanely personal information.

Akane is scribbling away again. "Ah, that's good to know."

"Well, Atsumu-san isn't very good at…. spatial awareness," Yaku retaliates. 

Komori turns to look at him. "What does that even mean?" 

Ushijima comes in. "It's a skill. Of knowing where your body is in relation to space."

"It's when you can tell where people are moving before they actually move there."

"Like changing positions?"

"So he's bad at mind reading."

'No," Yaku tries to defend himself. "It's more like he's really bad at responding to things." 

Atsumu was not expecting the jab at him. He wonders what Yaku is trying to get at.

"Hmm," Akane looks up at him, and it's a shovel gaze. The kind that wants to dig this statement to the deepest it can go. "Do you think this applies literally or conceptually, Atsumu-san?"

He feels put on the spot. The food in front of him is untouched, and in the back of his head he can hear his brother chastising him for it. Atsumu debates if it his accusation applies to Osamu. He had reacted terribly to his change in passions once before, in high school. He had doubts of his own skill after being handed down the responsibility of captain from Shinsuke. He thought fearlessness was a tragedy worth shouldering. But maybe it had cost him things along the way.

"I guess I'm just not the best at reacting to new things, to change."

Akane's eyes light up, as if she has struck a gold mine. "Yes! I think this manifests itself most prominently in the fact that many of your new national team jersey numbers are very familiar."

This statement throws Atsumu off guard. Immediately, the image flashes in his mind: bright red, black sides. Miya. Number 11. 

"That was an unplanned coincidence between Hinata and I," Kageyama explains. 

Hinata interjects, "But we're happy it's stuck with many people. Those numbers mean a lot to us. Karasuno days mean a lot to us."

She nods solemnly, wrist sliding across the page a mile a minute. Then, she looks up at Atsumu. "How did your brother react when he saw your jersey, Atsumu-san?"

He thinks about the first time he had gotten the jersey. The two digits and his fingers curling against them in a way that made him feel like he had grown three, seven, eleven times larger than life. He had just texted a photo. 

"I honestly don't know," he lets out a humorless laugh. "He sent a text back with a lot of exclamation points. But, uh, this number… It's really personal to me. It feels like wearing a piece of home."

She pauses for a moment to nod, write, and then move on to the next man. Atsumu counts her sudden disinterest as a passing grade, and leans back in his seat to finally eat.

___________

_2021 July 7th_

_Hyougo Prefecture, Amagasaki_

Driving through Amagasaki always makes Shinsuke feel like reopening a letter he had written to himself once. 

In this fine manuscript he can reread this place where high school weeknights slipped away like stray cats. Where there is little information about street names or family histories or home addresses (all those things blur away after time). But he can tell you how to walk from school to the nearest takaraji booth with his eyes closed. He knows these buildings like instinct.

They make a left turn and Granny's eyes widen at the sight of a pastel post office clinging in the center of all this grey. Four seconds away and they'll pass the lacquer-red berry bushes.

"Shin, here. Turn, turn, turn."

He notes her childlike excitement today, and pulls both hands up to the top wheel to steer into the small parking space. There's no denial that he isn't also happy to be here. How he too recognized that familiar slant of concrete. 

After they park and get out of the truck, he offers his arm for Granny to hold. Her jade and gold ring presses against a vein on his wrist as they cross the street. It serves to remind him that this woman holds enough polarity to carve herself a body made out of steel. She just happened to choose flesh in this life. 

When they enter the front door, the Kitas are greeted by the typical Onigiri Miya orchestra: morning news playing on the wall-mounted TV, a chair being rearranged, a steady rush of water. The constant sound of a knife chopping against wood.

Osamu is already entertaining some folks who have gathered at the few front tables, wiping at the keypad and rearranging the fliers up at the front counter. 

He's twisting a jar of okaka closed when Granny comes over to cup his face with both her palms.

" _So_ good, this one is," she holds him like a jewel, squeezes until Osamu's cheeks collide with the side of his lips. "Such a smart young man."

"Thank'm," Osamu tries to say, and she releases her death grip so she can catch up with some of the familiar patrons she hasn't conversed with in a while.

Osamu turns to where Shinsuke is standing, watching the TV mounted to the wall. It's playing a segment on the archery team, and Shinsuke takes note of the great form they arrange themselves in. 

"What's our play today, captain?" Osamu asks, rearranging his cap. 

Shinsuke turns to him. He's wearing a grin much too wide to be completely innocent. 

"It seems to me like you've already got one planned."

Osamu nods. He lean against the side of the counter, relaxed in his natural state, yet still drumming his fingernails against the top. It's an excited rhythm, a thrum of energy pulsing down his hand before he settles on a thought. 

"Karashi mentaiko?"

He's never wrong.

Shinsuke nods. "Make it two, please."

"You got it."

Shinsuke pulls out his wallet and begins to pull out a few paper bills until Osamu starts to make a noise of indignation. 

"On the house. No need."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Osamu, but I really would like to pay you for my meal sometime."

He says this, knowing that it's pointless. The stubbornness of a Miya is forever.

"Well, if you are looking to pay me back, do you think you could do it in a favor?"

"What favor?"

Osamu is smoothening the top of his apron now, adopting all these tactical rituals to seemingly keep himself from being nervous. 

"Do you think you'd want to take the train down to Tokyo with me?"

"Huh?"

Osamu shakes his head. "Sorry. I should've prefaced that. Would you like to come with me to check on the Onigiri Miya branch? It hasn't opened yet, but I'm goin' over there just to see how it's going." 

"You're going to Tokyo for the restaurant?"

He looks up at, glassy-eyed and caught. It reminds Shinsuke of high school once again. Of twins who fought tooth and nail one day, only to give up a leg and arm for each other the next. 

"Well… That and I thought I should see 'Tsumu at least once before the games start. It's not everyday I get emotional reading a magazine article." He's looking back at a point somewhere past Shinsuke's shoulder. "I thought maybe you'd want to come see him too?"

Shinsuke's eyes wander up to the TV mounted on the other side of the wall. It's turned off today, but his own expression is reflected back down at him, eyes large and beseeching. The resolution is a little blurry, but he can still make out the desperation there, etched into the curve of his brow. 

"Just for a day or two," Osamu continues. "It'd really make him happy."

Shinsuke nods to indicate he understands. Once more to agree. Then, a third time to say yes. 

Osamu breaks out into another great smile before quickly moving over to package his order.

Home seems like Shinsuke's for the taking. 

___________

_2021 July 9th_

_Tokyo Prefecture, Shibuya City_

When Atsumu wakes up on his first day off for the week, there's a two-second voice message from Osamu.

It consists of half a second of static crunch and then, _Hey. Call me back when you can_.

Despite his nervousness, he walks over to the kitchen and opens up the food cabinet, left hand patting somewhere on the third shelf where a jar of dust-colored grain can greet him good morning. The silver lid unscrews and the scent airplanes out over the tiled counter like it has five other times this week. He pulls out a pot and begins relearning the best recipe of boiling water. 

After three separate trials, each going straight to voicemail, Osamu finally picks up.

Atsumu attempts to steady his voice to not over-dramatize this whole ordeal. 

"I know you're probably getting ready to feed my ever-growing fanbase, but would it kill you to pick up your phone?"

Osamu is unfazed. 

"You're up early," he says. "Couldn't sleep?"

"It's nothing serious," he says. "Body probably thinks there's a schedule or somethin'." 

"It's a weekend," Osamu points out. 

"Yeah well, my body can be a slow learner." 

A beat of brimming silence. Unease in the way they are attempting to maneuver around each other, even through the phone. Atsumu lets his comment fall short and turns off the stove.

"Are you makin' breakfast?"

Leave it to Osamu to recognize the familiar sounds of food, even if the sound in question is just boiling water being poured into a ceramic bowl. 

"Instant dashi from the cabinet."

Atsumu stirs in the powder, only half concerned with making sure it doesn't clump. His hunger, coupled with his inability to succumb to any mundane tasks today, means the dish needs to hurry up and be made. 

"Ah… Mom still has a jar at home, too."

"I remember seeing it. I got the same brand, I think." 

"Mmm. It's a good one, it lasted us all three months of winter break in middle school."

Atsumu nods, even though Osamu can't see him. The world turns in spite of his stubbornness. He hasn't seen his brother in months, but it's strange how strong his presence feels, even through the phone.

"Why did you call earlier?" He finally remembers to ask.

"Oh, that." Osamu pauses. "Are you busy today?"

He clears his throat. "That depends. Who's asking?"

"I'm askin'," Osamu says pointedly. "I need a favor."

Atsumu swirls his chopsticks around just to focus himself on an action.

"I don't know if I can just teleport over there."

"That's okay, I already did."

He slows his mixing. 

"What?"

"Can you open up your door? It's hot as hell outside." 

Osamu speaks like he's already made a deal with the devil. Atsumu drops his chopsticks and begins walking to the front door. He opens it, and Osamu is in front of him, in real time. 

Brotherly reunion is dry air and arms wrapped around each other in a small hug. Osamu is warm and he smells like their parents' home, of a kitchen built on washing rice and fermenting vegetables. He rests his head on Atsumu's shoulder, like they had done before when they were children, once scared of the big wide world in front of them. And even now Atsumu feels his chest swell with the title of older brother _._

Once they have pulled away from each other, Atsumu takes one good look at him and asks, "Is this a set-up?" 

Osamu raises an eyebrow. "I think you should be less concerned about whether or not it's a set up and care more about the fact that you think it is."

"So it is a set up." 

"It's me asking for a favor," Osamu says and Atsumu continues searching his face for any clues as to why he is in Tokyo. Unfortunately, his brother has adopted a skillful poker face. "I need some help figuring out the layout for Onigiri Miya here."

"The layout— you couldn't have just called me?"

"I needed your in-person spatial awareness skills."

Atsumu feels himself groan in embarrassment before his hands come up to cover his face. "You read the article?"

"I did. Which brings me to the fact that I'd like to see my jersey, too."

" _Your_ jersey?" Atsumu lifts his head back up, Osamu's teeth shining bright as an elementary school chokehold. "Who said that it was yours?"

"It's got my number on it," he replies. 

"That doesn't mean anything."

"I think it means more that you're telling yourself," Osamu brushes past his shoulder to walk inside Atsumu's apartment. "You're actually all sentimental mush, 'Tsumu."

Atsumu can't contain the smile that wants to break out of him. "Fine, if you want to see it so bad."

He lets Osamu close the front door, and begins marching to his own room, the hallway illuminating his path. 

"You know if I'm such an important piece of home, it makes me wonder why you never make the effort to call me sometime," Osamu yells from down the living room. 

Atsumu retaliates with an "I can't hear you!" and pulls open his sliding door cabinet, where the red and black jersey is hanging, crisp and unwrinkled. He grabs the hanger and makes his way back to his brother. 

When he gets here, Osamu is in the kitchen, fingers running through all the magnets on his cabinet. He's scratching on the ceramic one Kageyama got him from Italy, with blue water and a gondola boat, the coliseums in the background. Sensing Atsumu's presence, he turns to face him. 

"I'm not mad, though. I get it." 

"Get what?"

"Being scared," Osamu says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. And maybe Atsumu is starting to think it is. "You don't have to be scared of sharing your life with the world, you know?"

"I know you like to hoard all your memories; you think they're nothing special for anyone but yourself. But they are special, 'Tsumu. You don't have to be stuck in one position forever."

He steps forward and takes the hanger from Atsumu's hand, holds it up in the morning sun that filters through the kitchen window.

"You've got so much to share with the world." 

Atsumu nods and that's when he gets it.

When wondering what his body makes of himself, he doesn't have to look any further than his back. 

Here is the living proof of the success of a Miya. Not a gold medal, but a personal victory. A threaded history. If they speak no delineation of his name, he will show them this number, and all the other ones he has collected, taken to the world stage and beyond.

He waits patiently as his brother studies the tenebrism of red stitch lines and black folds, holding the fabric for so long Atsumu is surprised it doesn't melt into his knuckles, beneath his nail, against his thumb. 

After Atsumu stores it back in the closet, they get ready to go out. 

"I think I'm gonna go see Aran-kun sometime this weekend, too," Osamu taunts. "Might as well get a whole Inarizaki reunion plan."

"You can't use high school nostalgia to persuade me."

"If you're going to be busy, you don't have to," Osamu taunts.

"I'm not going to be busy."

"Well you sound kinda annoyed."

"Says the reason for my annoyance."

"Okay, well, you don't have to go then. We can all have a reunion without you."

"Like hell you're having a reunion without me," Atsumu retaliates. "I was captain for a whole year."

"Fine, fine. It's not gonna be much of a fun time if you're in a mood."

"A mood? Who says I'm in a mood?" Atsumu taunts. 

"No one," Osamu replies, giving up. They're back to their straightforward ways of bickering. "How do we get to the station from here, again?"

Atsumu sighs, and starts grabbing his wallet. They're walking out into the street, where his body indulges in the light, even if it blazes just a bit too warm.

  
  


___________

Inside the Onigiri Miya Tokyo branch, the signature smell is not of food, but a mix of paint and plastic wrap.

It's a bare prototype compared to its original. The flooring has been completed with pristine linoleum, and the counter has been assembled with a glass display case and a swinging door that Shinsuke passes back and forth.

There's tape clinging on the floor to indicate Osamu's thought process with the tables and chairs, and Shinsuke can almost see the man's vision. It's a little more spaced out than the one in Amagasaki, as if the city warrants more personal space between each booth. Shinsuke almost wants to squeeze each section tighter together. 

He traces his finger along the area of the wall outlined in blue tape. "Inarizaki VBC Photo Here" one of the pieces of tape says. "National Team Photo Here" in another. "Me and Atsumu in 11 Jerseys Here" is the one closest to the register. 

Shinsuke's been waiting for maybe half an hour before he hears footsteps, and the unmistakable back and forth banter of two headstrong brothers. 

"Shit, hold on I have to return another call," he hears Osamu say. "You can go in and see for yourself, I'll follow you in there when I'm done." 

Shinsuke shakes his head at the sly ways of Miya Osamu, and stands silent against the front counter, waiting for the door to open.

And it does, ever so slowly, for Atsumu to walk in. 

His silhouette commands attention so easily, as it always does. Despite not growing any taller, there's always something very groundbreaking about seeing Atsumu after a long time. He is a million miles of life, a million lives in one. A million headaches and heartaches and muscle aches. A million brushstrokes of color.

He's stepping forward, shaking his head at the same time Shinsuke sees his knees nearly failing him. It's a considerable amount of disbelief, but also the very antithesis of surprise. As if he had expected this all along.

The closer he gets, the more clearly Shinsuke can look at him fully, finally, again and again and again. He's overcome with the urge to tell him about everything. About the magazine and the train ride here, and the way everyone in Amagasaki asks him how Atsumu is doing, as if Shinsuke is the source of all information on his boyfriend. He wants to tell him all these things but he doesn't. He can't. Not yet. It's like outlining a play and stopping one foot before the set. So he stands. And attempts to convey everything in one word.

"Atsumu."

"What are you doing here?" His boyfriend asks, and his voice sounds beyond repair. 

"Just wanted to wish you good luck," he says. He doesn't know if Atsumu is hearing him correctly. Maybe he is just seeing Shinsuke's lips move, maybe he thinks he is echoing some words of prayer. 

Shinsuke smiles and tilts his head slightly. It's scary how much of this he feels in his chest. In this spur of the moment he withholds everything, packages it inside instead of spilling it out in primitive gestures. Language is polished and memories on the surface are swept. Atsumu looks like a deer caught in the headlights and Shinsuke could have never prepared himself to take on this road. 

"I can't believe you actually came," Atsumu is standing only a few meters away. Shinsuke wonders if he's afraid. 

"Did Osamu not tell you I was gonna be here?"

"No," Atsumu's head shakes, seemingly of its own accord. "I thought he was really busy. See this morning I even called him three times but—"

"He wasn't picking up."

"—he wasn't picking up."

Kita Shinsuke, ever the master of hanging onto the very tail of Atsumu's sentences in order to complete them. The implications of this make Atsumu's face warm up. 

"Shit," Atsumu says under his breath.

Shinsuke can see from his gut to his heart the way his eyes are still wide.

"I just wanted to see you before you become something for the whole world," he says.

It makes his tongue feel heavy, like he has just stuck it into an electrical outlet and it is now hanging out the edge of his lips with every pressing moment. 

"You know that doesn't matter when I'm always going to be yours first." 

The words don't need any further explanation. It's been so long since they've stood like this. Since time stood like this. 

"They're coming in with the new fridge tomorrow!" 

Shinsuke's head whips to the sound of Osamu, who is now standing by the door. He's got his arms up readjusting his cap, but both of them can see the smug smile hidden behind there. 

"That's good news," Shinsuke walks over to the space where the counter has lifted up, and slips through. 

"Which means I'll probably have to take the train home soon," Osamu nods, then looks at Atsumu. "But I'm sure you and Kita-san wouldn't mind locking up for me today."

He watches Atsumu turn to face him, eyes still wide in hopes of Shinsuke's word of approval. Of his promise to stay.

"I wouldn't mind at all," he tells them.

His boyfriend breaks into a smile, all teeth and cheeks pushed up. Then, he turns to his brother. 

"You didn't tell me Kita-san was going to be here."

He holds his palm up for the keys. Osamu drops them without care.

"Practice for the reunion."

"I mean, a warning would have been nice."

Shinsuke feigns a sigh, coming up to stand by the two. "So you could come up with a reason to take a rain check?"

"So this was a set-up!" Atsumu cries out. Even with his Olympian stance and all his glory, he is no match for the two of them. 

"Not a set up," Shinsuke shakes his head. "It was a favor." 

  
  
  


_____________

Despite being straightforward with everything else, Atsumu grew up keeping good dreams to himself. He once thought it was a way of keeping his fortune. Like placing it in his pocket and running his hands along the edges of it, like coveting something special enough to hide it under his pillow. 

But even with his own dreams, Shinsuke can be shockingly direct.

"Does sending a text seem like settling?" He asks. 

They're holding each other for the first time since February, somewhere between mutiny and mediocrity, climbing up to the second floor of the apartment complex. 

"What do you mean?" Atsumu asks, one arm snaked around Shinsuke's waist. They walk in tandem, Atsumu's left foot rising at the same time Shinsuke's right one does. 

"If you were to send a text to me tomorrow, after I leave, would it make you feel like you're settling? Like this has to be all or nothing?"

Atsumu pauses his step up to search Shinsuke's face. It's not a rhetorical question, like the ones he used to spit in high school, just to make him learn his lesson. This one is a genuine concern of his.

"No," he says, without hesitation this time. "I want you however I can have you." 

And Atsumu means it. Shinsuke has always given him his all. He has no excuse not to notice it now.

"Then you should text me tomorrow when I get back home."

His eyes are on Atsumu, but Atsumu is now looking up past his head, over to the apartment door. 

"I will."

"Okay."

"Fine."

He tries again, voice gentler. "No one's telling you to just be an athlete all the time. You're one complete person, Atsumu. Made up of many, many things."

Atsumu feels the lump in his throat grow. He attempts to push it down. 

"Did you come all the way over here just to nag at me again?" He asks, reaching into his back pocket.

"No," Shinsuke shakes his head solemnly.

"Then what?"

"I came here to seduce you back home." 

Atsumu fumbles with his keys, and Shinsuke has to bend down to catch them before they hit the floor.

"Shit, Shin. You can't just say stuff like that," Atsumu laughs nervously. 

"You're so easy to rile up," his boyfriend smiles, placing the keys back in Atsumu's palms. 

He turns them, and the door opens for them to walk into.

"So this wasn't a visit to give me some all-knowing wisdom before I play against world-renowned athletes," he pulls out the keys and tosses them on the table. "This was a big master seduction plan."

Shinsuke closes the door behind him, follows Atsumu into taking off his shoes.

"It can be both, or either, or neither," Shinsuke looks up at him. "It's your call."

"I just can't believe… or I didn't think that-" Atsumu laughs ruefully at his own inability to speak. "I thought you were some final prize I could only unlock after this was all over. I didn't know I'd need you so much right now."

Shinsuke walks forward to catch two fistfuls of the front of Atsumu's t-shirt. 

"You make everything so much more complicated than it is, Atsumu," he says, guiding him against the door.

"Ah, ah, I know. I'm sorry," he has his palms flat against the man's chest. 

It's not much of a defense when all his syllables come out pained. And Shinsuke knows this. 

"No more silent treatment," he says, and he sounds so much like Obaasan that Atsumu can almost see the stern wave of her pointer finger. 

"I swear I was going to call."

Shinsuke's guiding his hands down the front of Atsumu's torso and Atsumu is reminded that the only people here now are the two of them. He feels a restlessness stack up in his stomach.

"And yet you still haven't," he counters, clipped and calculated. 

This push and pull is like muscle memory for the two of them. Atsumu is more than aware that there's really nothing to prove, but like the stubborn boy he is, he still wants to carve himself a reward anyways. 

"Shin," he grounds the nickname for all its worth. "I'd drive home to you every night if I could."

He takes pleasure in seeing Shinsuke's eyes grow wide, in feeling the hands on his waist still. He lifts his fingers, featherlight.

"I know you would. Because I'd do the same if I could, too."

"So I don't have to tell you that I missed you." 

In the game of who can ruin the other more, it's so rare there is ever a winner. 

Shinsuke lines their silhouettes up expertly, all the pressure pressing against his groin. Atsumu suppresses a whine as his own arms come up to wrap around Shinsuke's neck. 

"If you wanna stop, tell me now," he says, breath curling against the shell of Atsumu's ear. 

Atsumu stills himself in response. He lets Shinsuke drag his mouth over to the top of his cheekbones, all the fight and tension draining from him. 

"I'm not gonna stop you."

His mouth moves to the corner of Atsumu's lips, the featherlight ghost of kiss pressing there. 

He's a centimeter away, refusing to close the gap and Atsumu has to unfurl his fingers at the nape of Shinsuke's neck and use them to tilt his head. 

"Not now. Not ever."

Atsumu nudges his nose against his. Their mouths fall together, hopeless and open. 

It isn't soft, because neither man is priding himself on being gentle today. They kiss and it is the culmination of Shinsuke's purposefulness and Atsumu's defiance. He slides his tongue into Shinsuke's mouth and it is a heedless sort of devotion, even after all the time they had spent apart.

When he pulls away, Shinsuke is still looking right at him. 

"I love you."

His voice is rasp. 

The rise and fall of each other's chests are now inverted, the way it was when they walked up here. Shinsuke's up completing Atsumu's down. 

"I love you, too."

That's all it takes. Atsumu's chest is weightless, and he's taking his boyfriend down the hall this time, hand curled tight around his wrist. They're both stifling a laugh again, even when there is nothing funny at all. Shinsuke starts to, lips, soft and wide, parting like two gangly cherubs. Atsumu is determined to kiss the divine off of them. 

Because tonight, even the floorboards are done being selfish. They spill open with the sounds of every emotion the two men had once tried to suppress.

___________

_2021 August 4_

_Hyougo Prefecture, Amagasaki_

Shinsuke has stopped trying to commit pieces of his boyfriend to memory.

Before, he was so used to storing them in his mind— good luck charms dangling from a truck dashboard, clicking like souvenir keychains or rearranged magnets. Trying to remember the moments when he can thank space for holding him, leaving Shinsuke the impressions of Atsumu's body on his head, the way his name looks in Atsumu's handwriting. 

But it's been a little over a month since he's been in Tokyo and he can still recall the arches of his boyfriend's feet and the way Atsumu's hips roll against his own like the inflection of a sentence. The struggle of their wrinkled clothes pile in the morning and the lump in his throat from laughing too hard on the way to the train station.

He doesn't have to try to remember the way Atsumu takes up space next to him, because soon he will be back here, home, in the flesh. He'll be living up in the north coast with him, in a field where there is no driving the toll roads to jump start a car, and no mistakes to have to fix. Where it can be just the two of them out in a field, for all the light to touch. 

And until then, they have this. 

Today, inside Onigiri Miya, Osamu has stepped out of the kitchen.

It's a rare event for him to not be at the front of his store, but Osamu would never pass up the opportunity to see his Number 11 deliver the first service ace of the game. 

It's not too busy today in the store, anyways. Only a small influx of patrons are seated, and none in line. The floor manager has been instructed to take over the cash register, and the two new chefs in training are practicing recipes to be carried out. 

Soon, the Tokyo branch will be opening up soon and garnering a bigger crowd. Shinsuke and Atsumu managed to convince Osamu to squeeze his seating chart, adding a few more tables and chairs in the floor plan. 

Just the other day, Shinsuke came with him to get their Inarizaki group photo framed. It is packed somewhere in the box of things to take over to Tokyo soon. They've decided to hang up at the grand opening which Atsumu insisted should double as their long-awaited reunion. 

And today, a reunion comes in the form of a highly anticipated match against Argentina. Osamu turns up the volume to sixty, with the announcer prefacing the men's national volleyball team with a very elaborate description about the incredible roster Japan is already aware of. About all the great skills Shinsuke already knows these monster men possess.

Atsumu's face shows up on the screen, the wet gleam of his teeth reflecting bright blue. He's wearing the jersey in all it's double digit glory and Osamu is hollering at all the customers he can, prouder than Shinsuke has ever seen him. 

The TV makes him look even lovelier than the magazine did. With no makeup and the curve of his jaw in HD, Shinsuke finds himself searching every pixel until he can almost envision Atsumu soft and pliant in his own arms. 

It's too soon to be longing, he reminds himself. It would be counterproductive. It's about time to disregard the non-issue, and he throws himself back into the previous stage of fawning. 

"Ah! There ma'am, look!" he finds himself saying. He can't contain the pride anymore, so his brain knows nothing of what his mouth is pursuing. "He was on my team back in high school. That was my junior."

He turns around to see Granny and a patron staring up at him, exchanging looks over something Shinsuke didn't catch. They've all got rosy cheeks today, excitement contagious in such a small space.

"Ah he's very handsome," she replies, and Shinsuke nods in agreement. 

The screen flashes out of the corner of his eye and he turns back around. 

"Kita-san! There's both of them! There's Aran-kun," Osamu is beside him now, pointing up at where the two of them are bickering. 

Shinsuke can't help but laugh at how unreal it all is. Atsumu collides against Aran, and the way they scowl commands all the attention in the world. He remembers a time once ago, when all he wanted was to be proud of them. And now, he is. And even more than that, they are proud of themselves. 

He is gathering all this light in his arms and melting with it. Drawing gold closer to him with the push and pull of bone, body, muscle. Holding it until everything in him is swimming like live fish. Shinsuke thinks that the second he opens his mouth, a stream will jump from him, bubbling vibrant and lively with each word he speaks. He knows that once the words start, he won't be able to stop. 

He turns around once more to the women. 

"Well, what do you think? Aren't my old teammates amazing?"

Granny has her eyebrows curved in the most tender manner. 

"You've done very well, Shin. I'm proud of you all."

Shinsuke turns back to the TV once more. He is feeling alive and he is feeling something good resting inside of him, waiting to wake up. He's waiting for Atsumu to come home so he can pull out all the joy from the bottom of the tub, from the bottom of his dreams. Fortune spilling from his fingers like gold coins. 

_Look_ , he wants to say, _there's enough for the both of us._

**Author's Note:**

> writing a "long distance relationship" type of fic without actual long distance was logistically a challenge. i like to believe atsumu still carried his all-or-nothing mentality with him into his pro player days, but reels it back at the remembrance of shinsuke. it's through his love that he recognizes little things and in-betweens are just as important, and for that reason, i think they balance eachother out quite nicely.


End file.
